


Moon in Hand

by Historical_Muse



Series: A Knight's Tale [1]
Category: A Knight's Tale
Genre: Affection, Angst, Friendship, Longing, M/M, non-explicit descriptions of the sexual abuse of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know I may as well wish for the moon in hand...” ~ <em>I Can’t Own Her</em> by Andy Partridge (from the album <strong><em>Apple Venus</em></strong> by XTC)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon in Hand

When he closes his eyes at night, sometimes, just before he falls asleep, he sees again how it was the day they first met...

...The snot-nosed brat of a dockside whore, fending for himself on the streets and at seven years old already a tough little brawler, Wat had been pitched from one debateable relative to another for as long as he could remember.

Until now when he had fetched up in the stews of Southwark. 

Pitched between a butcher’s that sold cat meat disguised as rabbit and a mercer’s shop selling everything a man’s heart might desire and more, the Tabard Inn was the closest thing to a safe haven Wat had ever known.  His uncle Harry was a loud, rough-hewn man; but for Wat he represented warmth – security – _home_.

Exactly _what_ had happened to him in the years since his birth wasn’t clear to them.  However, the moment his aunt and uncle had laid eyes on the tatterdemalion little figure staring up at them from the doorway, thumb in mouth, all bright red hair, green-filtrumed nose and huge, wary eyes they knew that here was a damaged little boy who’d seen too much and been loved too little.

And so Harry and Constant had taken Wat in, scrubbed him clean, dressed him, fed him, and loved him unconditionally until at last the scars and welts on his body had begun to fade and the guarded look in his eyes had slowly been replaced by something approaching trust and affection.  The Tabard Inn had given Wat the stability he needed and which was beginning to soothe his ragged soul.

_Until..._

*~*~*~*~*~*

He shifts restlessly on the pile of furs and straw that serves them for beds in their tent.  Roland, stretched out behind him, grumbles under his breath.

“For the love of God an’ all ‘Is little cherubs, Wat...  I'm tryin’ to bloody sleep, ‘ere.  You know, _sleep_?  That thing you do when it’s dark an’ you close your eyes an’ little farty noises come out of your nose and you burble on about tansy cakes with peppermint cream?”

“I know, I know...!” Wat grumbles back indignantly.  And closes his eyes again, desperate to rest his aching body and quieten his still-racing mind.

_But it’s no use..._

Wat is remembering the first time he ever saw Will...and as usual that means it’s going to be hard for him to get to sleep tonight...

*~*~*~*~*~*

Running away.  Yet again, he was running away.

His small fists had bloodied the nose of a merchant’s spoiled brat for making fun of his wayward crest of flaming crimson hair just once too often and now the child’s parents had sent servants into Southwark seeking retribution.  And it wouldn’t be long before they got it – not when golden coins were being offered for any helpful information they might receive.

Wat was never going to be able to hide forever; he’d upset too many other parents and shop-keepers already in his short life to expect any protection from the locals.  Besides, with his unmistakable shock of hair, pale but grubby skin, expressive face, and clear blue eyes, young Wat was as distinctive as a peacock amongst a cloud of starlings.  There was no honour amongst thieves and the poor where Wat was concerned; his explosive temper and ability to transform himself into a furious whirling dervish when provoked had not endeared him to anyone save those just as violent as himself.

As he pounded down the crowded streets, arms and legs pumping and his heart hammering in his skinny chest, Wat knew that he couldn’t go home again.  He thought despairingly of the warmth and comfort he’d found at The Tabard and the love his aunt and uncle had shown him.  Before when people had spoken to him of love – grimy men reeking of sweat and foul, rancid breath...wild-eyed hags with fingers like polished bone...rich men and women, bored with what their money could buy them – it had meant unspeakable pain and degradation, strong hands holding him down on his knees or his back or on all fours as his mouth or his cock or his arse had been violated.  But with Uncle Harry and Aunt Constant, love had meant warmth and cuddles and laughter...tansy cakes with peppermint cream...jugged hare and cabbage...egg custard dusted with saffron... _home_...

“Oi!  _You_!”

Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, Wat spotted two bully-boys dressed in the merchant’s livery.  Turning back he instinctively increased his speed, ignoring the tearing pain in his lungs and the agonising cramps in his leg and thigh muscles – only to have the breath knocked from his body a bare heartbeat later as he collided with a mountain of muscle and steel.

Winded, the force of the impact sent Wat sprawling on his arse, barely able to take in what had happened before a dark shape was leaning down over him and he was watching a huge fist heading slowly towards the neck of his jerkin as though in a dream.  Moments later Wat was dangling in mid-air, face to face with a bearded giant smelling of horses, leather, and ale, as the sounds, smells and colours of the street careered around him.  After a second’s pause, Wat recovered from his initial shock and began struggling to get free.  Arms and legs thrashing and kicking despite the resultant tightening of his jerkin around his neck, Wat fought and spat as too many black memories came flooding in before his eyes like corpses washed up on the bleaker banks of the dark Thames.

A low roll of laughter broke over Wat’s head as he squirmed.  “Like a little eel, aren’t you, boy...”  The rumble was friendly, but Wat had good reason not to trust men who held him fast in their grip and spoke to him in cordial tones.

Almost choking as the strong hand tightened its hold on the cloth of his jerkin, Wat tried hard to focus his gaze on the man now growling at him – but it was no use; being so close his eyes couldn’t take in the face in front of him and he was forced to stare cross-eyed at the man’s nose.  “I’ll fong you,” Wat gasped with effort.  “Fong your arse – you and the _rest_ of your army...  Fong you – I’ll _fong_ you!”

“Is this piece of shite bothering you, my lord?”

The big man turned, and the merchant’s men swung into Wat’s line of sight.  “Bothering me?”  The Goliath snorted with derision.  “Does it _look_ as though he’s bothering me?”  He shook Wat like a puppy and stars danced before the boy’s eyes.

The smaller of the merchant’s men turned egregious.  “Beg pardon, my lord.  I meant no offence, my lord.  Only...”

“Only?”

The larger of the two thugs spread his hands.  “Our master wants a word with the brat – _boy_ , sire; a little disagreement between him and our master’s son...nothing more.  If we could just take him back with us, my lord...if you’d be so kind...”

The knight looked from the men to the small, snarling boy clutched in his fist and then back again.  “How much is he paying you?”

The small man looked blank.  “Paying us?”  He checked himself.  “My lord?”

The big man studied the boy again.  “Watkyn the merchant.  What’s he paying you?”

The two men exchanged puzzled looks.  “Er...”

“For the love of _Christ_!  How much is he paying you to hunt this child?”

“Oh, not just _us_ , sire,” the bigger and more stupid bully said cheerfully.  “There’s a gold florin for anyone who helps us find him!”

“You’ve found him, then.”  The knight’s voice was expressionless.  “Now give me my florin.”

Wat stopped fighting, all energy finally drained from him.  That was it, then.  It was over.  Betrayed by a rich bastard who could afford to buy him ten times over.  It wasn’t the first time this had happened:  he doubted it would be the last.  Resigned to the inevitable, Wat prepared to surrender to his fate.

Meanwhile, the smaller man was rifling through a heavy pouch at his belt.  “Here,” he said at last, drawing out a bright coin and handing it to the knight.  “Thank you, my lord.”

Shaking Wat again, the nobleman took the coin and stared at it, turning it over in his fingers.  “A gold florin...for one small, ragged-arsed, snot-nosed boy...”

The smaller merchant’s man coughed discreetly.  “My lord, the boy.  Our master awaits...”

“Hmmm?”  The knight seemed distracted, hypnotised by the sunlit piece of metal.

“Sire...the boy...?”

A sudden whirl of movement and fury, the knight took a step towards the two men.  “...Is _mine_ ,” he snarled.  “He’s my apprentice.  If your master wishes to take issue with him, then he must first take issue with me.”

The liveried men paled visibly.  “My lord!” the smaller one squeaked.  “We meant no harm – we did not know...”

The bigger one nodded.  “But sire, your apprentice – what I mean is...we never realised...he’s been living at the Tabard Inn for several months now...”

The knight smiled at them, eyes cold.  “Then I must thank _you_ , for I too have been seeking this boy.  He ran away from me and I’ve been halfway across the city looking for him.  Here, take your reward...”  He took a purse from his belt and threw it at the merchant’s servants.  “There should be ample there to complement whatever Watkyn may be paying you.  Tell your master that his child should be _honoured_ to have been bested by the apprentice of the greatest tournament champion in the country.  Now _go_ – and let me hear no more of this, or your master shall answer to the king himself!”

At that, the two servants exchanged anxious, calculating glances; then scuttled quickly back up the street, the waves of passers-by parting to let them through.

The knight looked round at the small crowd now gathered about him.  He shook Wat again, threw him in the air one-handed, and then caught him by the scruff of his jerkin.  “Do you know this boy?”

Wat closed his eyes, feeling dizzy and sick.  _He was going to die, he was going to die.  He knew it!_

“Do any of you know this boy?”  There was silence, then the knight snorted and nodded.  “No-one knows him...but do you know who I am?”

“Aye...”  The murmur of voices swelled around them.

“Here, then...a florin for your trouble!”

The big man flashed the crowd a broad grin, and then pitched the bright coin up into the air.  The people oohed and aahed as the gold piece spun as though in slow motion, sunlight reflecting from it as it somersaulted through space.  When the florin finally hit the cobbles, there was a brief spasm of wild scrabbling and then the crowd dispersed, leaving the knight and the boy in peace.

Wat suddenly found himself tossed up in the air and then caught by a strong hand under each armpit.  He also became aware of the knight’s saddled horse, a dray-horse hitched to a bundle-filled cart, and a tall, plump youth with watchful eyes behind them.

“Now then, boy,” the knight mused.  “What _are_ we going to do with you...”

Head starting to swim, Wat panicked.  He’d heard that phrase before, and it always meant pain...lots of pain...  “I'll fong your arse!” he squeaked, with the last of his strength, sounding like a rabbit caught in a trap.

The knight merely smiled at him.  “Will you now, little one...”

“Do you _really_ know the king that well, then, Sir Ector?”  The voice, from behind him, sounded northern to Wat’s ears.

The big man laughed.  “Of course not, Roland.  But _they_ don’t know that, do they?  Neither does Watkyn.  And it did the trick, didn’t it?”

“Aye, it did that...  So what are we going to do with carrot-top, then?  Take ‘im back to the Tabard?”

“My name’s _Wat_!” Wat snarled.  “Not ‘carrot-top’!”

Ignoring the outburst, Sir Ector placed Wat down gently on the ground.  “Do you promise not to run away, Wat?”

Eyes suddenly huge, Wat stared up at the dark, bearded knight.  Wat was strong and tough; but to the boy’s eyes the knight was very tall and must also be at least a hundred years old – and it didn’t do to argue with elderly giants, who were given to being fractious and easy to offend and would probably eat him whole for a light snack.  “I promise,” Wat hiccupped.  “If you ain’t gonna ‘urt me, that is.”

Ector gazed down at Wat solemnly.  “Young man – Wat – I promise you that I am _not_ going to hurt you.  You have my word on that, and I am a man of honour.  Small boys eat too much and make too much noise and snore and make smells, it’s true – but that isn’t reason enough to hurt them.”  He smiled again, showing a lot of white teeth.  “Very well, Wat.  What would you like to do?  Shall we indeed take you back to the Tabard Inn?  Shall Roland and I take you back to your mother and father?”

Wat opened his mouth to speak – then closed it just as quickly as tears threatened to humiliate him.  Then knuckled his eyes as the tears came anyway.  “Don’t ‘ave no mam an’ dad,” he whimpered, ashamed even at seven years old of the plaintive wail in his voice.

“So ‘oo were you livin’ with, then?”  Roland, a tall, chubby youth with an open face and twinkling, friendly eyes, stepped forward, offering a piece of marchpane he’d dug out of a sack.

“Me Uncle ‘Arry an’ me Auntie Constant,” Wat replied, taking the marchpane and nibbling it gratefully.

Sir Ector ruffled his hair.  “And don’t you want to go back to them?”

The kindness in the knight’s voice, combined with his flight through Southwark and Roland’s marchpane, was Wat’s undoing.  Letting out a yowl of misery, the boy sat down with a thump, drew up his legs, and laid his head down on his arms as he hugged his scrawny knees.  “I can’t!  After I belted that little tosspot ‘is dad said as ‘e’d flay the skin off me back if ‘e ever saw me again.  ‘E’ll make my life a misery if I go back ‘ome – an’ I don’t want ‘im to ‘urt me uncle an’ auntie, neither!  ‘Cos ‘e will, you know – ‘e _will_!”

Ector and Roland exchanged sombre glances over Wat’s scarlet coxcomb.  “I’ll go and speak to them,” Ector said quietly.  “Come to some arrangement.  He’ll be company for Will and he’ll be another pair of hands for you.”

“And another mouth to feed...”

“Aye, another hungry mouth to feed.  But God love him, Roland, you heard what he said – I can’t leave him to fend for himself on the streets.”

Ector bent and scooped the red-haired boy up in his arms, then threw him across to Roland who caught him expertly.  “Look after him, Roland.  Give him some small beer and some bread, then settle him down in the back of the cart with Will and wait for me; we’ll be on our way as soon as I return.”

As the knight mounted his horse and clopped away up the street towards the Tavern, admirers casting deferential glances in his direction, Roland hoisted Wat up against his shoulder and carried him towards the ramshackle cart.  “Come on, young man,” he said.  “Time for you to meet Will.  He’s Sir Ector’s apprentice – just like _you’re_ goin’ to be, by the look of it.  How do you fancy the idea of bein’ apprenticed to a knight then, young Wat?”

Wat smiled, suddenly sleepy, and feeling safe and at ease with these two men.  He wrapped his arms around Roland’s broad neck and burrowed his nose into the stout youth’s sturdy shoulder.  “Nice...”

Roland chuckled.  “Nice, eh?  Well, lad, you'll ‘ave to work ‘ard and mind your mouth and your manners, but you’ll be all right with Sir Ector – ‘e’s a good man.  ‘Aven’t you ever ‘eard the crowds chantin’ ‘is name at the stadium when there’s a tournament?  No man better than Sir Ector at the joust in the whole of England, lad – if not the world!”

Wat, impressed now, let out a gasp.  “ _Really_?” he exclaimed excitedly.  “The best jouster in the whole of the world?”

Roland “hmmm”d sheepishly.  “Well – maybe not the whole world,” he acknowledged.  “But certainly the best in England – which amounts to the same thing in the end, doesn’t it?”  Roland winked up at Wat and grinned, and Wat grinned back.

As Wat nestled back against Roland, he caught sight of a grave-eyed boy looking out at him from beneath a bundle of furs in the back of the cart.  The boy saw his look and lifted his chin.  “My name’s Will,” he said.  “What’s yours?”

“Wat,” said Wat.  He wrinkled his brow.  “Wat for – for – for ‘Walter’, I fink.”

The boy smiled.  “Well I’ll call you Wat, like Sir Ector and Roland do.  I like it better than ‘Walter’.  It suits you.  Hello, Wat.”

“’Allo, Will...”

“I see you’ve met, then,” Roland chuckled wryly.

Introductions over, Roland settled Wat in the back of the cart with a child-sized mug of small beer and some bread and cheese, then sat on the cart steps and took out a pile of mending.  As he ate, Wat watched him, finding it hard to believe that Roland’s brawny hands could handle a needle and thread with such delicacy.

“Never seen a man sewing before?”  Will's voice broke his concentration.  “Roland's very good, aren't you, Roland?”

“Aye, I am that.  Me mam taught me.  Comes in very ‘andy, it does – if I’m not sewin’ up Sir Ector’s wounds, then I’m a dab ‘and at rustlin’ up a new tunic or two.”

“Made me my tunic, didn’t you, Roland!”

“Very proud of that, I was,” the older youth acknowledged.  “Nice bit of stitchin’, even if I say so meself.”

As Wat chewed his bread and cheese, Will and Roland continued nattering cheerfully.  “Wat liked Roland already, but Will intrigued him.  The child was around the same age as himself, but slighter, oddly fine-boned and almost feminine-looking.   His blonde hair fell to his shoulders in wild, sun-bleached tangles, and his brown eyes studied Wat as though scrutinising him through to his core.  Something in that gaze unsettled Wat in a strangely pleasant way – something he couldn’t understand, but which made him feel warm in the pit of his stomach...

*~*~*~*~*~*

“You’re doin’ it _again_...”

“Sorry...”  Wat squirms and sighs, punching the sack stuffed with straw that serves him for a pillow and cuddling closer to his cushion.

“What in the name of St Erconwald is the _matter_ with you, anyway?”

“Can’t sleep.”

Roland chuckles good-naturedly and Wat feels the big man’s body shake with gentle mirth.  Oddly, it comforts him.  “Thinkin’ of Will off wi’ Chaucer an’ Kate in the big bad city?”

“Yes.”

Roland guffaws.  “Our mad poet I’m not so sure about – but I think our Will’ll be quite safe with Kate lookin’ after ‘im.”

Wat’s thinking of Will, certainly.  Will and _only_ Will.  Will first, last, and everything.  _Will_...

And again the memories slither across his closed eyelids, taunting and tormenting and arousing him until he feels sure that his skin will catch a-fire.

*~*~*~*~*~*

It had been neither planned nor expected, but once, a long time ago, Wat and Will had been lovers.

 _Well..._ Perhaps “lovers” was too noble a word to describe what they’d been and “love” too grand for the effects of the basic, animal hunger that had possessed them; certainly there had been nothing romantic about their furious couplings.  But afterwards, Wat was to remember it as a heaven of sexual experimentation driven by a sultry afternoon and the frustration of boys at the cusp between childhood and the world of adults.  A paradise motivated by the pleasures of firm, male flesh sticky with sweat and salt and the overwhelming need to fuck and be fucked.

It had been almost farcical in its inevitability – a bout of horseplay in a hayloft that began as energetic wrestling and ended in frantic kisses, rough, exploring hands and the heedless tugging at clothes demanded by the desire to feel a naked body against one’s own bare flesh as soon as humanly possible.  To feel another’s hands on your cock and balls instead of your own.

 _Jesu_ – how Wat had needed that.  To feel Will’s calloused palms stroking and tugging at his cock and balls, rough hands gripping the cheeks of his arse as Will, blind with need, ground his cock against Wat’s erect prick, the two of them grunting out an obscene litany of crude words and cruder demands as their bodies wanted more...

And there had _been_ more.  And Wat had relived it over and over again down the years, always getting impossibly hard as he remembered...

...As he remembered Will, on all fours, begging – _pleading_ \- to be taken, to see how it felt to be fucked.  Telling Wat that he wanted to be fucked senseless, even though he only had a faint idea of what that might mean – and not caring that he didn’t.  Wat remembered the look in Will’s eyes – the glazed, almost possessed expression of a boy half-drunk with lust – and knew that his own eyes must have held the same shameless stare as he slicked his tumescent cock with spit and then plunged without further preamble or preparation into Will’s virgin arse.  If Wat heard Will’s yelp of pain it didn’t register as Wat’s own lust, triggered by feeling Will’s arse tight around him, took control.  Given Will’s response once the initial shock had worn off – the bucking, jerking hips slamming that pert round arse back against Wat’s groin, the howls of pleasure and the loud, throaty groans – most likely it hadn't mattered...

*~*~*~*~*~*

Wat closes his eyes, feels his cock rising and hardening inside his baggy breeches.  He remembers how stars had danced before his eyes when Sir Ector had shaken him by the scruff of his neck, the day he first met Will.  And he remembers how those stars had danced again as he lay exhausted in the hay, body draped across Will’s, as their sated bodies and minds drowsed away the rest of the afternoon until they were needed again.

But it was not only the fixed stars; he recalls lying sleepless on the cart into the early hours, watching constellations, shooting stars and planets wheeling and whirling overhead, their wild careening matching his delirious joy in learning that the sights and sounds and smells and sensations of sex could be pleasurable.  Learning that someone’s hands on his body could bring him bliss.  That someone’s mouth and tongue sucking and licking eagerly on his cock and balls could feel like paradise.  That to watch and feel his cock sinking between the plump buttocks spread under his hands could make him forget his own name.  That a thick, engorged prick slamming rhythmically into his own arse accompanied by grunts and the sound and feel of strong thighs and swollen bollocks smacking against his sensitised flesh could send his soul soaring beyond space...

...Above all:  learning that he loved William Thatcher more than life itself.

And nothing has changed.  He’s still in love with Will and always will be – and hates Jocelyn for having from Will what he knows he can _never_ have.

Wat longs to fuck Will again and have him as his lover; longs for it with a hunger so basic and fierce that it makes him ache.  Makes him ache with a pain so intense that he fears it might kill him.

Christ Jesu, he’s hard – _so fucking hard_...

He yearns to fold his coarse fingers and palm around his cock – to let the pictures flood his mind as he wanks, hips jerking frantically, until the pain goes away.  But even as his hand begins the slow slide down his body towards the hot flesh that calls to him he knows that tonight this will not be enough.  Tonight he needs to be fucked.  Tonight he wants to feel another’s body moving with his own – not merely to satisfy the urgent need for a cock deep inside him, but for the warmth and the comfort and the reassurance of feeling that someone cares.

Hunger suddenly possesses him, focussing his concentration solely in his groin.  He flips over as though controlled by another power, nerve endings alive and his mind alert, if single-focussed.  He reaches out his hand and touches a shoulder clad in rough homespun.

“What is it now...”  Roland's voice is toneless but slightly irritated, as though he has been on the verge of falling asleep.

“Roland, I...I need you,” Wat says simply.  “I can't sleep.”

Roland sighs heavily and Wat feels the older man’s warm breath against his skin.  “Don't tell me.  It’s Will again, isn’t it...”

“Yes...”

“And you need me to ‘elp you get to sleep...”

“Aye, I do, Roland.”

“In the usual way?”

There is no reproach in Roland’s voice, only kindness and understanding and the hint of a chuckle.  Wat feels tears flood his eyes as waves of affection for his friend wash over him.  “Yes,” he replies, almost inaudibly.  He knows that he has nothing to explain to the ever-astute Yorkshireman.

“Okay, then...”  Roland stirs and huffs, getting into a better position.  “Clothes on or off?”

Wat needs contact, needs the feel of skin against skin.  “Off.”

“Bugger.  I thought you’d say that.  Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Humph.  It’s a bit too bloody cold for the full monty tonight,” Roland mutters, not even half-serious.  “Can’t I at least keep me kecks on?”  Wat shakes his head, grinning, and Roland beams back.  “Oh well, please yourself.  It’s a good thing I’ve got such a big dick – even if it shrinks a bit in the cold, at least I know me belly’s not gonna get in the way...”

Laughing with Roland as the big man undresses and shivering with desire as he shucks off his own clothes, Wat lies down on his side again as soon as he’s naked, and waits for Roland to join him.  He doesn’t have long to wait.

Still chuntering cheerfully, Roland nestles against Wat’s back and slaps his arse playfully.  “Right then, ‘andsome stranger.  What’s it to be, then?  The usual, you say?”

Wat laughs again.  “Aye, the usual.”

“Want me to ‘old your dick as well, or are _you_ gonna do that?”

“I’ll do it...”

“Thank Christ for that.  Can’t get a good rhythm goin’ if I ‘old your todger.  It’s like pattin’ me ‘ead an’ rubbin’ me belly at the same time.”

Roland huffs and wriggles with discomfort.  “By St Kenelm, this is ‘ardly comfortable – an’ I ‘ope I don’t get a straw up me arse, neither.  Not like you,” he adds with a jovial leer.  “You’re gonna get somethin’ a damn sight bigger than a bloody straw up _your_ arse tonight, you lucky bastard, you...”

Again Wat laughs at Roland's mischievous chortles, but trying to smile makes his face hurt now that his need is so desperate.  “Please, Roland,” he whispers.  “ _Please_...”

Roland relents and blows a loud raspberry against Wat’s bare shoulder.  “Just let me get settled and standin’ to attention...”  He leans over and takes a small vial from one of the packs piled on the floor.  “This is that oil Will uses to polish ‘is sword,” Roland explains – then lets out a wonderfully filthy gurgle of laughter.  “I'm gonna be polishin’ _my_ sword with it in a minute...”  He unstops the vial, pours some oil into his hand, then swears as he realises he hasn’t enough hands to re-stopper the vial easily.  After a few more choice words he succeeds and throws the vial into the straw, out of the way.  “Now then,” he says huskily as he begins slathering the oil onto his cock and between Wat’s buttocks.  “Let me ‘ave a think...”

Wat can hear Roland’s hand lubricating his cock and can imagine his friend’s erection engorging and hardening as he applies the oil first to his cock, then to the dark cleft between Wat’s buttocks, unaware that as his hand moves between the two he has set up an agonisingly sweet rhythm.

“Roland, what are you finkin’ about?”  Wat's voice is breathless from feeling Roland’s oiled fingers pressing into the cleft between the globes of his arse.

“That pretty little maid of Jocelyn’s,” Roland replies dreamily.  “’Er tits are too small and there’s not enough meat on ‘er bones for my likin’, but she'll do for now...  Oh Christ...”  Roland’s breathing quickens.  “Oh God, yes...she’ll do for now, Wat...  Oh Jesus and ‘Is ‘Oly Mother...  Wat, are you ready?”

Wat nods, hardly able to breathe now.  “Aye, I’m ready.”

“Want me to go straight in?”

“Aye – aye...  Just...just fuck me, Roland...”

“Anythin’ you want, lad...”

Wat stops breathing altogether as he feels Roland getting ready, the trail of hair on the older man’s chest and belly brushing and tickling against his back and bare buttocks.  He is tense, his whole body ready for this.  He feels the head of Roland’s cock pressing against the ring of muscle between his buttocks and wills himself to relax so that the entry will be easy.

“That’s it...nearly there...don’t want to hurt you, lad...”

Wat’s smile is broad and affectionate.  “You never do, Roland,” he reassures his friend softly.

“I aim to please,” Roland replies, sounding delighted.

Wat feels Roland’s harsh breath on his neck as the big man’s meaty fingers guide the head of his cock into position – and then he is gasping, fingers clutching impulsively, as Roland pushes forward and Wat feels himself impaled on hot, rigid flesh.  Roland moans into Wat’s shoulder and the two of them adjust their positions, getting comfortable for the pleasure to come.

Roland clasps his hands around Wat’s waist and blows another loud raspberry against the young man’s skin.  “Now remember,” he says, hugging Wat close.  “It's all all right.  Do what we always do.  You pretend I’m William, and I’ll...well, I’ll do me best to be ‘im for you...”

Wat pats Roland’s hands gratefully to let him know that he understands and then closes his eyes, savouring the feel of the hard flesh within him.  They begin to move together, both of them taking what they need from the other and giving as much in return.

As the pleasure builds, Roland’s moans and soft cries of “Oh yes...!” and “You beauty...!” soothe Wat and his troubled soul.  Roland’s consoling bulk and willingness to give comfort touches Wat and gives him ease as his fantasies unravel before his closed eyes and he begins to answer Roland’s ever-more vigorous thrusts with whimpers and thrusts of his own, hips grinding back against the warm, plump body.  As they reach climax, Wat is lost in his own pleasure, switching from fantasy to fantasy.  He sees himself plunging hard and deep into Will’s body as he masturbates; then, with each of Roland’s thrusts he imagines that it’s Will who’s fucking him; _Will_ whose cock is slowly sending his mind into free-fall – before Roland’s sudden cry and the pleasurable convulsions that seize his own body mean that for a while, he simply cannot think at all...

*~*~*~*~*~*

“Roland,” Wat begins afterwards, limbs tangled with his friend’s.

“Mm-hm?”  Roland is on the verge of sleep and sounds as though he suspects Wat isn’t going to let him drift off just yet.

“Roland, do you fink Will will _ever_ love me?  You know, forget Jocelyn an’ love _me_ instead?”

Roland goes still, and is quiet for a time.  “Hmmm!” he says at length.  “It’s a thought.  I mean, ‘oo knows?  After all, what is it Will says?  That a man _can_ change ‘is stars?  Maybe the same will ‘appen to you, Wat.”

Wat nestles down in the straw, wrapping himself more securely around the big man.  “Mmmm...maybe...”

He lies awake, listening to Roland’s breathing slowing into sleep and to the sounds of the city preparing for bed.  He thinks about what Roland said; that perhaps he could change his stars and make Will see that Jocelyn isn’t what he wants.  Make Will see that what he _really_ wants is a rough, argumentative, quirkily handsome red-head with broad shoulders and a big heart who already knows what it is to make love to him and what it is that most gives Will pleasure when it he’s making love.

But even as the gratifying thought enters his head, Wat’s heart sinks.  It will never happen.  A man might change his stars, but some things are destined to remain forever out of reach.  He thinks of how he watched the stars that night after making love to Will and realises that he knows the truth of it.  Will is as cold to him now as those stars – and just as remote.  They will never now be more than good friends, and Wat’s heart will probably never mend.  Because he knows that while he might dream about touching the stars, a dream is all it will ever be; Will is destined to take Jocelyn as his bride:  he will never be Wat’s bed-mate.  Taking the stars and weaving them into a garland for Will’s hair would be more within his grasp.

As he sighs and curls up against Roland’s warm, comforting bulk, Wat tries to ignore what he knows, but it pushes itself into his mind anyway:  he wants Will, but he knows all too well that he may as well wish for the moon in hand... 

~f~i~n~i~s~


End file.
